The Mystery of a Hansom Cab (3 page)

CHAPTER THREE

ONE HUNDRED POUNDS REWARD

V.R.

MURDER

£ 100 REWARD

‘Whereas, on Friday, the 27th day of July, the body of a man, name unknown, was found in a hansom cab.
and, whereas
, at an inquest held at St Kilda, on the 30th day of July, a verdict of wilful murder, against some person unknown, was brought in by the jury. The deceased is of medium height, with a dark complexion, dark hair, clean shaved, has a mole on the left temple, and was dressed in evening dress. Notice is hereby given that a reward of £100 will be paid by
the Government for such information as will lead to the conviction of the murderer, who is presumed to be a man who entered the hansom cab with the deceased at the corner of Collins and Russell streets, on the morning of the 27th day of July.'

CHAPTER FOUR

MR GORBY MAKES A START

‘Well,' said Mr Gorby, addressing his reflection in the looking glass, ‘I've been finding out things these last twenty years, but this is a puzzler and no mistake.'

Mr Gorby was shaving, and as was his usual custom conversed with his reflection. Being a detective, and of an extremely reticent disposition, he never talked outside about his business, or made a confidant of anyone. When he did want to unbosom himself, he retired to his bedroom and talked to his reflection in the mirror. This mode of proceeding was a safe one, and, moreover, relieved his overburdened mind of anything he wished to speak about yet wanted to keep secret. The barber of Midas, when he found out what
was under the royal crown of his master, fretted and chafed over his secret, until he stole one morning to the reeds by the river, and whispered ‘Midas has asses ears.' In the like manner Mr Gorby felt a necessity at times to let out his secret thoughts in talk, and as he did not care about chattering to the air, he made his mirror the confidant of his ideas, and liked to see his own jolly red face nodding gravely at him out of the shining glass, like a mandarin. If that cheap little looking glass which Mr Gorby stared at every morning could only have spoken, what revelations there would have been of Melbourne secrets and Melbourne morals. But then, luckily for some people we do not live in fairy land, and however sympathetic Mr Gorby found his mirror, it revealed nothing. This morning the detective was unusually animated in his talk with the looking glass, and at times a puzzled expression passed over his face. The hansom cab murder had been put into his hands in order to clear up the mystery connected therewith, and he was trying to think of how to make a beginning.

‘Hang it,' he said thoughtfully strapping his razor, ‘a thing with an end must have a start, and if I don't get the start, how am I to get the end?'

As the mirror did not answer this question, Mr Gorby lathered his face, and started shaving in a somewhat mechanical fashion, for his thoughts were with the case and ran on in this manner:—

‘Here's a man—well, say a gentleman—who gets
drunk, and, therefore, don't know what he's up to. Another gent who is on the square comes up and sings out for a cab for him—first he says he don't know him, and then he shows plainly he does—he walks away in a temper, changes his mind, comes back and gets into the cab, after telling the cabby to drive down to St Kilda. Then he polishes the drunk one off with chloroform, gets out of the cab, jumps into another, and after getting out at Powlett Street, vanishes—that's the riddle I've got to find out, and I don't think the Sphinx ever had a harder one. There are three things to be discovered—First, Who is the dead man? Second, What was he killed for? And Third, Who did it?

‘Once I get hold of the first, the other two won't be very hard to find out, for one can tell pretty well from a man's life whether it's to anyone's interest that he should be got off the hook. The man who murdered that chap must have had some strong motive, and I must find out what that motive was. Love? No, it wasn't that—men in love don't go to such lengths in real life—they do in novels and plays, but I've never seen it occurring in my experience. Robbery? No, there was plenty of money in his pocket. Revenge? Now, really it might be that—it's a kind of thing that carries on most people further than they want to go. There was no violence used, for his clothes weren't torn, so he must have been taken sudden, and before he knew what the other chap was up to. By the way, I don't think I examined his clothes
sufficiently, there might be something about them to give a clue, at any rate it's worth looking after, so I'll start with his clothes.'

So Mr Gorby after he had finished dressing and had had his breakfast, walked quickly to the police station, where he asked for the clothes of the deceased to be shown to him. When he received them he went into a corner by himself and started to examine them. There was nothing remarkable about the coat, as it was merely a well-cut and well-made dress coat, so with a grunt of dissatisfaction Mr Gorby threw it on one side, and picked up the waistcoat.

Here he found something which interested him very much, and that was a pocket made on the left hand side of the waistcoat, and on the inside.

‘Now, what the deuce is this for?' said Mr Gorby, scratching his head; ‘it ain't usual for a dress waistcoat to have a pocket on its inside as I'm aware of; and,' continued the detective greatly excited, ‘this ain't tailor's work, he did it himself, and jolly badly he did it too. Now he must have taken the trouble to make this pocket himself so that no one else would know anything about it, and it was made to carry something valuable—so valuable that he had to carry it with him even when he wore evening clothes. Ah! Here's a tear on the side nearest the outside of the waistcoat, something has been pulled out roughly— I begin to see now—the dead man possessed something
which the other man wanted, and which he knew the dead one carried about with him. He sees him drunk, gets into the cab with him, and tries to get what he wants; the dead man resists, upon which the other kills him by means of the chloroform which he had with him, and being afraid that the cab will stop, and he will be found out, snatches what he wants out of the pocket so quickly that he tears the waistcoat, and then makes off. That's clear enough, but the question is, what was it he wanted? A case with jewels? No! It could not have been anything so bulky, or the dead man would never have carried it about inside his waistcoat. It was something flat which could easily lie in the pocket—a paper—some valuable paper which the assassin wanted, and for which he killed the other.

‘This is all very well,' said Mr Gorby, throwing down the waistcoat, and rising. ‘I have found number two before number one. The first question is: Who is the murdered man? He's a stranger in Melbourne, that's pretty clear, or else someone would be sure to have recognised him before now by the description given in the reward. Now, I wonder if he has any relations here? No, he can't, or else they would have made enquiries before this. Well, there's one thing certain, he must have had a landlady or landlord, unless he slept in the open air. He can't have lived in an hotel, as the landlord of any hotel in Melbourne would have recognised him from the description, especially when the whole place
is ringing with the murder. Private lodgings, more like, and a landlady who doesn't read the papers, and doesn't gossip, or she'd have known all about it by this time. Now, if he did live, as I think, in private lodgings, and suddenly disappeared, his landlady wouldn't keep quiet. It's a whole week since the murder, and as the lodger has not been seen or heard of, the landlady will naturally make enquiries. If, however, as I surmise, the lodger is a stranger, she will not know where to enquire, therefore, under these circumstances, the most natural thing for her to do would be to advertise for him; so I'll have a look at the newspapers.'

Mr Gorby got a file of the different newspapers, and looked carefully in the columns where missing friends, and people who will hear something to their advantage are generally advertised for.

‘He was murdered,' said Mr Gorby to himself, ‘on a Friday morning, between one and two o'clock, so he might stay away till Monday without exciting any suspicion. On Monday, however, the landlady would begin to feel uneasy, and on Tuesday she would advertise for him. Therefore,' said Mr Gorby, running his fat finger down the column, ‘Wednesday it is.'

It did not appear in Wednesday's paper, neither did it in Thursday's, but in Friday's issue, exactly one week after the murder, Mr Gorby suddenly came on the following advertisement:—

‘If Mr Oliver Whyte does not return to Possum Villa, Grey Street, St Kilda, before the end of the week,
his rooms will be let again.—Rubina Hableton.'

‘Oliver Whyte,' repeated Mr Gorby, slowly, ‘and the initials on the pocket handkerchief which was proved to have belonged to the deceased were “O. W.” So his name is Oliver Whyte is it? Now, I wonder if Rubina Hableton knows anything about this matter. At any rate,' said Mr Gorby, putting on his hat, ‘as I'm fond of sea breezes, I think I'll go down, and call at Possum Villa, Grey Street, St Kilda.'

CHAPTER FIVE

MRS HABLETON UNBOSOMS HERSELF

Mrs Hableton was a lady with a grievance, as anybody who happened to become acquainted with her soon found out. It is Beaconsfield, who says, in one of his novels, that no one is so interesting as when he is talking about himself; and, judging Mrs Hableton by this statement, she was an extremely fascinating individual, as she never by any chance talked upon any other subject. What was the threat of a Russian invasion to her as long as she had her special grievance—once let that be removed, and she would have time to attend to these minor details which affected the colony.

The grievance Mrs Hableton complained of, was want of money; not an uncommon one by any means,
but on being reminded of this, Mrs Hableton would reply, snappishly, that she ‘know'd that, but some people weren't like other people,' the meaning of which mystical remark was simply this: She had come out to the colonies in the early days, when there was not so much difficulty in making money as now, but owing to a bad husband, had failed to make any.

The late Mr Hableton—for he had long since departed this life—was addicted to the intemperate use of the flowing bowl, and at the time when he should have been earning money, was generally to be found in a drinking shanty, spending his wife's earnings in standing treat for himself and his friends. The constant drinking, and the hot Victorian climate, soon carried him off, and when Mrs Hableton had seen him safely under ground in the Melbourne Cemetery, she returned home to survey her position and see how it could be bettered. She gathered together a little money from the wreck of her fortune, and land being cheap, purchased a small section at St Kilda, and built a house on it. She supported herself by going out charring, taking in sewing, and acting as a sick nurse. So, among this multiplicity of occupations, she managed to do fairly well, and even put a little money in the bank. But she was very bitter against the world for the treatment she had received, and often spoke of it. ‘I ought to 'ave bin in my kerrige and 'e in the 'Ouse,' she would say bitterly, ‘if 'e 'adn't bin sich a brute, but ye can't
make a man out of a beast whatever them Darwin folks say.'

And, indeed, it was a hard case, for just at the time when she should have been resting and reaping the reward of her early industry, she had to toil for her daily bread, and all through no fault of her own. Depend upon it, that if Adam was angry at Eve for having eaten the apple and got them driven out of the pleasant garden, his descendants have amply revenged themselves on Eve's daughters for her sin. Mrs Hableton is only the type of many women who, hardworking and thrifty themselves, are married to men who are a curse both to their wives and families. Little wonder it was that Mrs Hableton should have condensed all her knowledge of the masculine gender into the one bitter aphorism, ‘Men is brutes.' This she firmly believed in, and who can say she had not good grounds for doing so. ‘They is brutes,' said Mrs Hableton, ‘they marries a woman, and makes her a beast of burden while they sits at 'ome swillin' beer and callin' themselves lords of creation.'

Possum Villa was an unpretentious-looking place with one bow window and a narrow verandah in front. It was surrounded with a small garden with a few sparse flowers in it which were Mrs Hableton's delight. When not otherwise engaged she tied an old handkerchief round her head and went out into the garden where she dug and watered her flowers until they all gave up attempting to grow from sheer desperation at
not being left alone. She was engaged in her favourite occupation about a week after her lodger had disappeared, and was wondering where he had gone.

‘Lyin' drunk in a public 'ouse, I'll be bound,' she said, viciously pulling up a weed with an angry tug, ‘a-spendin' 'is rent and a-spilin' 'is inside with beer—ah, men is brutes, drat 'em.'

Just as she said this, a shadow fell across the garden and, on looking up, she saw a man leaning over the fence looking at her.

‘Git out,' she said, sharply, rising from her knees and shaking her trowel at the intruder. ‘I don't want no apples today, an' I don't care how cheap you sells 'em.'

Mrs Hableton evidently laboured under the delusion that the man was a hawker, but not seeing any handcart with him she changed her mind.

‘You're takin' a plan of the 'ouse to rob it, are you?' she said. ‘Well, you needn't, 'cause there ain't nothin' to rob, the silver spoons as belonged to my father's mother 'avin' gone down my 'usband's throat long ago, an' I ain't 'ad money to buy more. I'm a lone pusson as is put on by brutes like you, an' I'll thank you to leave the fence I bought with my own 'ard earned money alone, and git out.'

Mrs Hableton stopped short for want of breath, and stood shaking her trowel, and gasping like a fish out of water.

‘My dear lady,' said the man at the fence, mildly,
‘are you—'

‘No I ain't,' retorted Mrs Hableton, fiercely, ‘I ain't neither a member of the 'Ouse nor a school teacher to answer your questions. I'm a woman as pays my rates an' taxes and don't gossip nor read yer rubbishin' newspapers, nor care for the Russings no how, so git out.'

‘Don't read the papers,' repeated the man, in a satisfied tone, ‘ah! that accounts for it.'

Mrs Hableton stared suspiciously at the man who made such a peculiar remark. He was a burly looking man, with a jovial red face, clean shaved, and sharp shrewd-looking grey eyes which kept twinkling like two stars. He was well dressed in a suit of light clothes, and wore a stiffly starched white waistcoat with a massive gold chain stretched across it. Altogether he gave Mrs Hableton the impression of being a well-to-do tradesman, and she mentally wondered what he wanted.

‘What d'y want?' she asked abruptly.

‘Does Mr Oliver Whyte live here?' asked the stranger.

‘He do, an' he don't,' answered Mrs Hableton, epigramatically. ‘I ain't seen 'im for over a week, so I s'pose he's gone on the drink like the rest of 'em, but I've put sumthin' in the paper as 'ill pull him up pretty sharp, and let 'im know I ain't a carpet to be trod on, an' if you're a friend of 'im, you can tell 'im from me 'e's a brute, an' it's no more but what I expected of 'im,
'e bein' a male.'

The stranger waited placidly during the outburst, and Mrs Hableton having stopped for want of breath, he interposed quietly—

‘Can I speak to you for a few moments?'

‘An' who's a-stoppin' of you?' said Mrs Hableton defiantly. ‘Go on with you, not as I expects the truth from a male, but go on.'

‘Well, really,' said the other looking up at the cloudless blue sky and wiping his face with a gaudy red silk pocket handkerchief, ‘it is rather hot, you know, and—'

Mrs Hableton did not give him time to finish, but walking to the gate, opened it with a jerk.

‘Use yer legs and walk in,' she said, and the stranger having done so, she led the way into the house, and into a small neat sitting-room which seemed to overflow with antimacassars, wool mats, and wax flowers. There was also a row of emu eggs on the mantelpiece, a cutlass on the wall, and a grimy line of hard-looking little books, set in a stiff row on a shelf, presumably for ornament, as they looked too unpleasant to tempt anyone to read them. The furniture was of horsehair, and everything was hard and shiny, so when the stranger sat down in the slippery looking armchair that Mrs Hableton pushed towards him, he could not help thinking it had been stuffed with stones it felt so cold and hard. The lady herself sat opposite to him in another hard chair, and having taken the handkerchief off her head,
folded it carefully, laid it on her lap, and then looked straight at her unexpected visitor.

‘Now then,' she said, letting her mouth fly open so rapidly that it gave one the impression that it was moved by strings like a marionette, ‘who are you? what are you? and what do you want?'

The stranger put his red silk handkerchief into his hat, placed it on the table, and answered deliberately—

‘My name is Gorby, I am a detective, I want Mr Oliver Whyte.'

‘He ain't here,' said Mrs Hableton, thinking that Whyte had got into trouble, and was going to be arrested.

‘I know that,' answered Mr Gorby.

‘Then where is 'e?'

Mr Gorby answered abruptly, and watched the effect of his words.

‘He is dead.'

Mrs Hableton got quite pale and pushed back her chair. ‘No,' she cried, ‘he never killed 'im, did 'e?'

‘Who never killed him?' queried Mr Gorby sharply.

Mrs Hableton evidently knew more than she intended to tell, for, recovering herself with a violent effort, she answered evasively.

‘He never killed himself.'

Mr Gorby looked at her keenly, and she returned his gaze with a defiant stare.

‘Clever,' muttered the detective to himself, ‘knows something more than she chooses to tell, but I'll get it out of her.' He paused a moment and then went on smoothly, ‘Oh, no, he did not commit suicide; what makes you think so?'

Mrs Hableton did not answer, but rising from her seat went over to a hard and shiny-looking sideboard from whence she took a bottle of brandy and a small wineglass. Half filling the glass, she drank it off, and returned to her seat. ‘I don't take much of that stuff,' she said, seeing the detective's eyes fixed curiously on her, ‘but you 'ave given me such a turn that I 'ad to take something to steady my nerves; what do you want me to do?'

‘Tell me all you know,' said Mr Gorby, keeping his eyes fixed on her face, which thereupon changed, and grew a shade paler.

‘Where was Mr Whyte killed?' she asked.

‘He was murdered in a hansom cab on the St Kilda Road.'

‘In the open street?' she asked, in a startled tone.

‘Yes, in the open street.'

‘Ah!' she drew a long breath, and closed her lips firmly.

Mr Gorby said nothing as he saw that she was deliberating whether to tell or not, and a word from him might seal her lips, so, like a wise man, he kept silent. He obtained his reward sooner than he expected.

‘Mr Gorby,' she said at length, ‘I 'ave 'ad a 'ard struggle all my life which it came along of a bad husband, who was a brute and a drunkard, so, God knows, I ain't got much inducement to think well of the lot of you, but—murder,' she shivered slightly though the room was quite warm, ‘I didn't think of that.'

‘In connection with whom?'

‘Mr Whyte, of course,' she answered hurriedly.

And who else?'

‘I don't know.'

‘Then there is nobody else?'

‘Well, I don't know—I'm not sure'

The detective was puzzled.

‘What do you mean?' he asked.

‘I will tell you all I know,' said Mrs Hableton, ‘an' if 'e's innocent, God will 'elp 'im.'

‘If who is innocent?'

‘I'll tell you everythin' from the start,' said Mrs Hableton, ‘an' you can judge for yourself.'

Mr Gorby assented, and she began:

‘It's only two months ago since I decided to take in lodgers; but charrin's 'ard work, and sewin's tryin' for the eyes. So, bein' a lone woman 'avin' bin badly treated by a brute, who is now dead, which I was allays a good wife to 'im, I thought lodgers 'ud 'elp me a little, so I put a notice in the paper, an' Mr Oliver Whyte took the rooms two months ago.'

‘What was he like?'

‘Not very tall, dark face, no whiskers nor mous
tache, an' quite the gentleman.'

‘Anything peculiar about him?'

Mrs Hableton thought for a moment.

‘Well,' she said at length, ‘he 'ad a mole on his left temple, but it was covered with 'is 'air, an' few people 'ud 'ave seen it.'

‘The very man,' said Gorby to himself, ‘I'm on the right path.'

‘Mr Whyte said 'e 'ad just come from England,' went on the woman.

‘Which,' murmured Mr Gorby, ‘accounts for the corpse not being recognised by friends.'

‘He took the rooms, an' said 'e'd stay with me for six months an' paid a week's rent in advance, an' 'e allays paid up reg'lar like a respectable man, tho' I don't believe in 'em myself. He said 'e'd lots of friends, an' used to go out every night.'

‘Who were his friends?'

‘That I can't tell you, for 'e were very close, an' when 'e went out of doors I never know'd where 'e went, which is jest like 'em; for they ses they're goin' to work, an' you finds 'em in the beershop. Mr Whyte told me 'e was a-goin' to marry a heiress, 'e was.'

‘Ah!' interjected Mr Gorby, sapiently.

‘He 'ad only one friend as I ever saw—a Mr Moreland—who comed 'ere with 'im, an' was allays with 'im—brotherlike.'

‘What is this Mr Moreland like?'

‘Good-lookin' enough,' said Mrs Hableton sourly,
‘but 'is 'abits weren't as good as 'is face—'andsom is as 'andsom does is what I ses.'

‘I wonder if he knows anything about this affair,' muttered Gorby to himself. ‘Where is Mr Moreland to be found?' he asked aloud.

‘Not knowin', can't tell,' retorted the landlady, ‘'e used to be 'ere reg'lar, but I ain't seen 'im for over a week.'

‘Strange! very!' thought Gorby, shaking his head, ‘I should like to see this Mr Moreland. I suppose it's probable he'll call again?' he remarked aloud.

‘'Abit bein' second nature I s'pose he will,' answered the woman, ‘'e might call at any time, mostly 'avin' called at night.'

‘Ah! then I'll come down this evening on chance of seeing him,' replied the detective, ‘coincidences happen in real life as well as in novels, and the gentleman in question may turn up in the nick of time. Now, what else about Mr Whyte?'

‘About two weeks ago, or three, I'm not cert'in which, a gentleman called to see Mr Whyte; 'e was very tall, and wore a light coat.'